Collected Short Fiction

by C. M. Kornbluth

  ALMARISH strode majestically through the frosted-glass door simply lettered with the name and title of the man who owned the nation of ghouls body and soul.

  “Hello, Hemming,” said he to the man behind the desk, sitting down unbidden.

  The president was scarcely “changed” at all. It was possible that he had been eating food that he had been used to when Above. What Almarish saw was an ordinary man in a business suit, white-haired, with a pair of burning eyes and a stoop forward that gave him the aspect of a cougar about to pounce.

  “Almarish,” he said, “I welcome you to my—corporation.”

  “Yes—thank you,” said the sorcerer. He was vaguely worried. Superb businessman that he was, he could tell with infallible instinct that something was wrong—that his stupendous bluff was working none too well.

  “I’ve just received an interesting communication,” said Hemming casually. “A report via rock signals that there was some sort of disturbance in your Ellil. A sort of—palace revolution. Successful, too, I believe.”

  Almarish was about to spring at his throat and bring down guards about his head when he felt a stirring in his pocket. Over the top of one peeked the head of Moira.

  “Won’t you,” she said, “introduce me to the handsome man?”

  Almarish, grinning quietly, brought her out into full view. With a little purr she gloriously stretched her lithe body. Hemming was staring like an old goat. “This,” said the sorcerer, “is Moira.”

  “For sale?” demanded the president, clenching his hands till the knuckles whitened on the top of his desk.

  “Of course,” she drawled amiably. “At the moment a free agent. Right?” She tipped Almarish a wink.

  “Of course,” he managed to say regretfully, “you know your own mind, Moira, but I wish you’d stay with me a little longer.”

  “I’m tired of you,” she said. “A lively girl like me needs them young and handsome to keep my interest alive. There are some men—” she cast a sidelong, slumbrous glance at Hemming—“some men I’d never grow tired of.”

  “Bring her over,” said the president, trying to control his voice. Almarish realized that there was something in the combination of endemic desirability and smallness that made an irresistible combination. He didn’t know it, but that fact was being-demonstrated in his own Braintree, Mass., at that very time by a shop which had abandoned full size window dummies and was using gorgeous things a little taller than Moira but scarcely as sexy. In the crowds around their windows there were four men to every woman.

  His Moira pirouetted on the desk top, displaying herself.

  “And,” she said, “for some men I’ll do a really extraordinary favor.”

  “What’s that?” asked Hemming, fighting with himself to keep his hands off her. He was plainly terrified of squashing this gorgeous creature.

  “I could make you,” she said, “my size. Only a little taller, of course. Women like that.”

  “You can?” he asked, his voice breaking. “Then go ahead!”

  “I have your full consent?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Full consent.”

  “Then—” a smile curved her lips as she swept her hands through the air in juggling little patterns.

  A lizard about ten inches long reared up on its hind legs, then frantically skittered across the table-top. Almarish looked for Hemming, could not see him anywhere. He picked up Moira. In a sleepy, contented voice she was saying:—

  “My size. Only a little taller, of course.”

  CHAPTER III

  BACK IN THE tube from which they had been shunted into the Halls of the Eternal Eaters, as the Ghouls fancied calling themselves, Almarish couldn’t get sense out of Moira. She had fallen asleep in his pocket and was snoring quietly, like a kitten that purred in its sleep.

  And more than ever he marvelled at this cold-blooded little creature. She had had the routine of seduction and transformation down so pat that he was sure she had done it a hundred times—or a thousand. You couldn’t tell ages in any of these unreal places; he, who should be a hundred and eight looked just thirty-five and felt fifteen years younger than that.

  All the same, it would be a good thing not to give Moira full and clear consent to anything at all. That must be an important part of the ceremony.

  He hoped that the ghouls would straighten themselves out now that their president was a ten-inch lizard. But there were probably twenty villainous vice-presidents assorted as to size, shape and duties to fill his place. Maybe they’d get to fighting over it, and the ghouls-in-ordinary would be able to toss them all over.

  Not that he liked this way of traveling, he assured himself. It couldn’t be anything half so honest as it seemed—a smooth-lined tube slanting down through solid rock. It was actually, of course, God-knew-what tricky path between the planes of existence. That thirteen-hour clock was one way, this was another, but more versatile.

  Lights ahead again—red lights. He took Moira from his pocket and shook her with incredible delicacy.

  “You ox!” she snapped. “Trying to break my back?”

  “Sorry,” he said. “Lights—red ones. What about them?”

  “That’s it,” she said grimly. “Do you feel like a demi-god—particularly?”

  “No,” he admitted. “Not—particularly.”

  “Then that’s too damn bad,” she snapped. “Remember you have a job to do. When you get past the first trials and things wake me up.”

  “Trials?” he demanded.

  “Yes. Always—Egyptian, Greek, Roman, Norse—they all have a Weigher of Souls. It’s always the same place, of course, but they like the formality. Now let me sleep.” He put her back into his pocket and tried to brake with his hands and feet. No go. But soon he began to decelerate. Calling up what little he knew of such things, he tried to draw a desperate analogy between molecules standing radially instead of in line and whatever phenomenon this was which made him—who was actually, he knew, not moving at all—not-move more slowly than before, when he had been standing still at an inconceivably rapid pace.

  The lights flared ahead into a bloody brilliance, and he skidded onto another of the delivery tables of sardonyx.

  A thing with a hawk face took his arm.

  “Stwm stm!” it said irritably.

  “VELLY SOLLY,” said the sorcerer. “Me no spik—whatever in Hades you’re speaking.”

  “R khrt sr tf mtht,” it said with a clash of its beak. Almarish drew his invincible dirk and the thing shrugged disarmingly. “Chdl nfr,” it grinned, sauntering off.

  A Chinese approached, surveying him. “Sholom aleichim,” he greeted Almarish, apparently fooled by the beard.

  “Aleichim sholom,” replied the enchanter, “But you’ve made a mistake.”

  “Sorry,” said the Chinese. “We’ll put you on the calendar at General Sessions. Take him away!” he called sharply.

  Almarish was hustled into a building and up a flight of stairs by two men in shiny blue uniforms before he had a chance to ask what the charge was. He was hustled through a pen, through innumerable corridors, through a sort of chicken-wire cage, and finally into a court-room.

  “Hurrah!” yelled thousands of voices. Dazedly he looked over a sea of faces, mostly blood-thirsty.

  “Tough crowd,” one of the attendants muttered. “We better stick around to take care of you. They like to collect souvenirs. Arms . . . scalps . . .”

  “See him?” demanded the other attendant pointing at the judge. “Used to be a Neminant Divine. This is his punishment. This and dyspepsia. Chronic.”

  Almarish could read the sour lines in the judge’s face like a book. And the book looked as though it had an unhappy ending.

  “Prisoner to the bar,” wheezed the justice.

  THE COURT: Prisoner, give your name and occupation.

  PRISONER: Which ones, your honor? There are so many.

  (Laughter and hisses)

  A VOICE: Heretic—bum him!

  THE
COURT: Order! Prisoner, give the ones you like best. And remember—We Know All.

  PRISONER: Yes, your honor. Packer, ex-overlord of Ellil.

  THE COURT: Read the accusation, clerk.

  CLERK: (Several words lost) did willfully conspire to transform said Hemming into a lizard ten inches long.

  (Laughter in the court)

  THE COURT: Poppycock!

  RECORDING CLERK: How do you spell that, your honor?

  THE COURT: Silence! I said Poppycock!

  RECORDING CLERK: Thank you, your honor.

  PRISONER’S COUNSEL: Your honor (several words lost) known (several words lost) childhood (several words lost).

  THE COURT: Prisoner’s counsel is very vague.

  PRISONER: My God—is he my lawyer?

  THE COURT: So it would appear.

  PRISONER: But I never saw the man before, and he’s obviously drunk, your honor!

  THE COURT: Hic! What of it, prisoner?

  PRISONER: Nothing. Nothing at all. Move to proceed.

  PROSECUTING ATT’Y: I object! Your honor, I object!

  THE COURT: Sustained.

  (A long silence. Hisses and groans.)

  THE COURT: Mr. Prosecutor, you got us into this—what have you to say for yourself?

  PROSECUTING ATT’Y: Your honor, I—I—I move to proceed.

  PRISONER: It’s my turn, your honor. I object.

  THE COURT: Overruled.

  (Cheers and whistles)

  VOICES: Hang him by the thumbs!

  Cut his face off!

  Heretic—burn him!

  THE COURT: I wish it to go on record that I am much gratified by the intelligent interest which the public is taking in this trial.

  (Cheers and whistles)

  PROSECUTING ATT’Y: Your honor, I see no need further to dillydally. This is a clear-cut case and the state feels no hesitation in demanding that the court impose maximum penalty under law—which, if I remember aright, is death per flagitionem extremam, peine forte et dure, crucifictio ultima and inundatio sub aqua regia—in that order. (Cheers and screams. Wild demonstration)

  THE COURT: I so—

  A VOICE: Hey, blue-eyes!

  THE COURT: I so—

  A VOICE (the scone): Hey, you cutie-pants!

  THE COURT: Prisoner. PRISONER: Yes, your honor?

  THE COURT: Prisoner, are you aware of what you have in your pocket?

  PRISONER: Oh—her. Cute, isn’t she?

  THE COURT: Bring it closer. I shall make it Exhibit A.

  A VOICE (the same): Hey—that tickles!

  THE COURT: Exhibit A, have you any testimony to give?

  (Demonstration, mostly whistles)

  EXHIBIT A: Yes, your honor. Take me away from this horrible man! The things he’s done to me—

  THE COURT: Yes? Yes?

  EXHIBIT A: You can’t imagine. But your honor, you’re not like him. You know, your honor, there are some men (rest of testimony lost).

  THE COURT: (Comments lost)

  EXHIBIT A: (Testimony lost)

  THE COURT: Really! You don’t mean it! Well go ahead!

  EXHIBIT A: Have I your full consent?

  THE COURT: You have—free, clear and legal.

  EXHIBIT A: (Gestures with both hands).

  THE COURT: (Turns into lizard approx. 10 in. long).

  EXHIBIT A: Come on, whiskers—let’s beat it!

  PRISONER: I hear you talkin’ !

  PROSECUTING ATT’Y: Go after them, you damfools!

  COURT ATTACHES: Not us, bud. What kind of dopes do we look like to you?

  (Screams, howls, whistles, yells, demonstration, complete pandemonium)

  CHAPTER IV

  “HOW WILL I KNOW,” demanded Almarish, “when I’m supposed to turn left?”

  “When the three moons show up as an equilateral triangle,” said Moira, “will be high time. Now, damn you, let me go to sleep.”

  “Why are you always s tired after these little transformation acts of yours?”

  “You, not being a real sorcerer, wouldn’t understand. But suffice it to say that any magic-worker would have to do as much. Watch out for ghosts. Good night.”

  She was in his pocket again, either purring or snoring. He never could decide which was the right word. And Almarish realized that this little lady had somehow become very dear to him.

  He was walking along a narrow, sullen strip of desert bordered on either side by devil-trees that lashed out with poisonous, thorny branches. The things must have had sharp ears, for they would regularly lie in wait for him and lash up as he stepped past. Fortunately, they could not make the extra yard or two leeway he had.

  Above, the three moons of the present night were shifting in a stately drill, more like dancers than celestial bodies, sometimes drawing near to an equilateral triangle but never quite achieving it. And she had been most specific about it.

  There was still le Bete Joyeux to face, from whose eyes had to be wrung a vial of tears for purpose or purposes unknown to the sorcerer. His French was a little weak, but he surmised that the thing was a happy beast, and that to make it weep would bear looking into. He made a mental note to ask her about it. He was always asking her about things.

  The devil-trees were at it again, this time with a new twist. They would snap their tentacles at him like whips, so that one or more of the darts would fly off and whizz past his face. And it was just as well that they did. One of those things would drop a rhino in full charge, Moira had told him. Odd name, Moira. Sounded Irish.

  He looked up and drew his breath in sharply. The moons had formed their triangle and held it for a long, long five minutes. Time to turn left. The way was blocked, of course, by ill-tempered trees. He drew the invincible dirk, hoping that the trees did not know enough magic to render the thing just an innocent little brand, and deliberately stepped within reach of one of the trees.

  It lashed out beautifully; Almarish did not have to cut at it. The tentacle struck against the blade and lopped itself clean off. The tree uttered a mournful squeal and tried to find and haul in the severed tentacle with the others. They had a way of sticking them back on again.

  He slashed away heartily, counting them as they fell. With each fresh gush of pussy sap the tree wailed weaker and weaker. Finally it drooped, seemingly completely done in. Treachery, of course. He flung a lump of sandstone into the nest of arms and saw them close, slowly and with little crushing-power, around it. Were it he instead of the stone he could have hacked himself free before the thing burst into sand.

  Quite boldly, therefore, he picked his way among the oozing tendrils, now and then cutting at one from the wrist. He gum-shoed past the trunk itself and saw the pulsing membranes quiver malevolently at his step. They had things like this back in Ellil; he felt more than competent to deal with them.

  BUT GHOSTS, now—ghosts were something else again. He had never seen a ghost, though the rumors did go about. And if ever ghosts were to be seen it was in this spot.

  Here the moons did not send their light—he didn’t know why—and the grass underfoot was fatty, round rods. From shrubs shone a vague, reddish light that frayed on a man’s nerves. There was the suggestion of a sound in the air, like the ghost itself of a noise dispersed.

  “Moira,” he said softly. “Snap out of it. I’m scared.”

  A tiny head peeked over the top of his pocket. “Yellow already?” she insultingly asked. “The master of all Ellil’s turning green?”

  “Look,” he said. “Just you tell me what we’re up against and I’ll go ahead. Otherwise, no.”

  “Ghosts,” she said. “This place is a den of them. I suppose you’ve heard all the stories about them and don’t quite believe. Well, the stories are true. Just forget about the whimsy a la John Kendrick Bangs. Ghosts aren’t funny; they’re the most frightening things that ever were. There’s nothing you can do about them; none of the magical formulae work because they aren’t even magical. They are distilled essence of terror in tactile form.
There’s absolutely nothing you can do with, to or about them. I can’t give you a word of advice. You know what you have to do, whiskers. We’re after that vial of tears.”

  “Right,” he said. “Keep your head out—here we go.”

  He—they—walked into a vast glob of darkness that saturated their minds, seeped between their molecules and into their lungs and hearts.

  “OH MY GOD!” wailed a voice. “Oh, my God!”

  Almarish didn’t turn his head; kept walking straight on.

  “Stranger—help me—here they come—” the voice shrilled. There was a sickening sound of crackling, then a mushy voice that spoke a few indistinguishable words.

  “They’re at it,” said Moira tremulously. “Don’t let it get you down.”

  “A big man like you,” said the sweet voice of a young girl, “consorting with that evil little creature! You ought to be ashamed of yourself. I’m ever so much nicer . . .”

  In the gooey blackness appeared a figure, wispy, luminous, of a charming maiden whose head was a skull and whose hair was a convolution of pinkly writhing worms. Gently they hissed in chorus:—

  “Bold, big master,

  Come to terms;

  Feed the dainty

  Maid of Worms.”

  The last line of the ditty echoed from all sides in a variety of voices, ranging from a new-born wail to the hoarseness of a death-rattle.

  Almarish shut his eyes and walked ahead as the Maid reached out arms. He walked into her and felt a clammy, gelid coldness, the tightness of arms about him and ropy things fumbling on his face. Repressing a shriek, breathing heavily, he strode on, finally opening his eyes. Again he—they—were in the blackness, without a sound or light. Fumbling for a handkerchief he swabbed at his brow and cheeks, dripping with cold sweat. As he thought of the Maid again his back rose into little prickles of. ice.

  “It was me,” he said, trembling violently, “that never could stand mice and roaches, Moira.”

  “Keep going,” she snapped coldly. “This isn’t a picnic.” The little creature was upset again. Almarish walked on, missed his footing and fell, sprawling grotesquely. Slowly he drifted down through unimaginable depths of blackness, reaching out frantically for holds, and there were none.